Soliloquy for the Logically-Hearted
by Madame Cyanure
Summary: In which Sherlock is presented with an unusual dilemma. Set within The Sign of Three. One-shot; pure, self-indulgent smut. Sherline. xx


**Soliloquy for the Logically-Hearted**

This was different. Not odd; chemically, his state was perfectly legitimate. The unprecedented redistribution of hormones was perfectly ordinary, whether the individual was male or female. Rationally, an added sense of urgency originated from the post-action adrenaline. Hydroxydimethyldodecahydrocyclopentaphenanthrenone – testosterone. Dihydroxyphenethylamine – dopamine. Aminohydroxyethylbenzenediol – norepinephrine. All perfectly natural, and all perfectly disconcerting. Sherlock had not experienced this particular problem in a long time.

"_Do you always carry handcuffs?"_

It was the way which she had gazed at him, completely irreverent. Her lilting accent, the proud standoffishness, her confident smile. The inescapable fact that she was more than passably pretty. He was above emotions, but not carnal impulses. It was all rather unfortunate. His life was oriented entirely around the work and he could not afford to be distracted. Everything else was irrelevant, yet a diversion was here before him, screaming for his undivided attention. Nobody would notice his absence from the dance floor. He had served his purpose; it just so happened that the end of his duties had coincided with the need for discretion. The isolation of the industrially white hotel room offered a welcome alternative.

Dangling fully clothed over the edge of an ancient four-poster bed, Sherlock lay back and closed his eyes. _Lie back and think of England._ The old saying came to him out of nowhere, so relevant yet so trivial. He cut short an asinine laugh and attempted to refocus his thoughts. There were always things of greater importance than satisfying his own desires; things which actually held utility. There were problems which necessitated his input; thought experiments to idly peruse. He opened the doors to his mind palace and prepared to take the plunge.

A tsunami of information surged forward. The rush hour impact of the restoration of Piccadilly Circus's Anteros; a twelve minute and twenty-seven second delay. A case of stolen letters; to be returned to. The financial implications of the United Kingdom breaking friendship with the Americans; in summary, severe. The effect of aqua regia upon a decaying –.

"_The famous Mr Holmes; I'm very pleased to meet you!"_

She had broken into his mind palace. The locks had been blown and she was running amok; every coherent thought was tainted by her. The rivers of his body continued run southward, hot and fervent. She would have to leave immediately. A cold shower was out of the question; it would draw too much attention, and the signs were there if you knew where to look. Sherlock did know where to look, hence it bothered him. The second option was far from pleasing, but needs must. Mycroft. Anderson. He tried to think of _anyone_ but her. He failed dismally. Why wouldn't she leave?

"_Can I keep you?"_

She couldn't keep him. Why should he yield to her? Emotions were dangerously compromising and he had one viable solution remaining to him. It was crude and primal but, by his calculations, it would be enough. Sherlock slowly unzipped his fly and delved into the tented cavern of his trousers. He shuddered as he guided himself into the palm of his hand, already sensitive and leaking. Not even The Woman could elicit this kind of response from him; merely a provocative brand of esteem for one whom he couldn't read. Theirs had been an intellectual tango but this, this was certainly different. He did not need to attempt to read her life's story; she dangled it in front of him like bait to a fish. Her family, her job and her intimate preferences were all his for the taking, should he want them. However, she was an interruption; one which would detract precious moments of brainpower at that. Sherlock never did anything without conscious thought and was determined to make quick work of this. With strong, precise movements, he began to pump.

"_No sex, okay?"_

This wasn't to his deepest regret. Sex didn't interest him. However, if he were to consider it, there were worse specimens of womanhood to choose from. She offered a challenge quite unlike any other; a strong-willed, raven-haired floozy who was desperate to escape the endless cycle of one-night stands. Maintaining her image in the forefront of his memory could only bring things to a swifter conclusion. His breathing became laboured as he increased his speed, dwelling upon her features. No; after the next few moments he would have no use for her. His thoughts would no longer linger and business would resume as normal. He bemoaned the self-destructive conflict between the central nervous and endocrine systems, nothing more. Regret was not part of his skillset.

Feeling the pressure rise, creeping down from abdomen to groin, Sherlock couldn't help offering a reflexive smile to the otherwise empty room. It had been an eternity since he had allowed himself to indulge in base pleasures, with good reason. Nonetheless, it had a sweetness which rivalled any depressant drug. The nanoseconds before his intellect demanded to be restored would be exquisite. He grunted through gritted teeth, mindful of both his own mental discomfort and the chances of his brother having bugged the venue. These were thin walls; he needed to bring himself to a swift conclusion.

"_I wish you weren't…whatever it is you are."_

There was a final crescendo of want. The smallest part of him realised that he had too hastily palmed her off to the least adequate man in the room. A woman of her stamina would require a more stimulating partner. If she had value elsewhere, Sherlock could make an exception. Research would be required. Any involvement could be kept on his terms. She could be removed from the equation once she had served her purpose. Equally, she could become his new assistant once John had surrendered to fatherhood. The smallest part of him had become cancerous. He was no longer thinking clearly. The tiniest of moans came out as a hiss and Sherlock bit down, starving himself of oxygen so as to provide the power to cleanse her from his system. His spine arched; the tension muting with every muscle spasm. The longing did not leave with his release.

Janine was proving to be a most intriguing distraction. Sherlock had allowed her to escape this once. Never again.

_**Je regret rien, as Édith Piaf would say. Reviews are adored. :) MC. xx**_


End file.
